


and love is not a choice.

by skeletalescape



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Human Disaster Bucky Barnes, I took all canons out back and shot them, M/M, Stalker Bucky Barnes, This starts off adorable and gets dark REAL quick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-26 22:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18726046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeletalescape/pseuds/skeletalescape
Summary: james barnes is trying to exude more chaotic energy. steve rogers gets left at the altar. this is not a love story.





	and love is not a choice.

just last week, natasha typed up a quiz for teen girls titled _pick your favorite vine lines to find out your greek love style_ and every single variation of answers pointed to a lavender _ludus_. james had taken the test six times, frustrated with the same result, until natasha took the phone out of his hands and clicked the wildest, most chaotic answers possible.

 _mania_ stared back at them from it’s little square box.

“what the fuck,” james said flatly.

natasha grinned like a shark, “it’s a social experiment.”

which had kind of made sense, but only because natasha exudes the most tumultuous energy james has ever seen in his admittedly neutral existence.

so it’s completely lawful for him to ask “more alignment quizzes?” while packing up his planner and slinging his headphones around his neck.

natasha doesn’t budge, staring intently at her screen, “better leave quick, barnes.”

“why, is potts gonna condemn us to overtime again?”

“worse,” she looks away from her desktop, frowning, “wedding next door in five.”

“fuck,” james groans.

st. bernadine is a beautiful church and it’s abysmal location (right next to an office full of bitter millennials and exhausted gen z’rs) does nothing to fend off the wedding fever. there’s a ceremony every goddamn weekend and the occasional thursday. it’s disgusting. james would rather die.

“skedaddle,” natasha says emphatically, “or you’ll get to watch the bride walk up all those stairs in her pretty dress.”

“choke,” james returns before he does, indeed, skedaddle.

god is against him, however, and reiterates her disdain for james’s existence by breaking the elevator, tripping poor peter parker down the stairs, and letting james walk right into the company’s owner, tony stark.

“what’s the hurry, barnacle boy?” stark asks, cocking his head to the side like he’s actually going to give james time to answer.

james, familiar with this game, ratchets his anxiety levels up before anyone else can do it for him,  “no hurry, just excited for the weekend-”

stark somehow bulldozes right over him while managing to remain excessively focused “i loved that piece about facebook, by the way.”

“thanks-”

“exhilarating. invigorating. eye-opening,” he mimes kisses his fingers in a poor chef imitation, “mwah. bravo, bernard, bravo.” thankfully, though tony’s attention is intense, it’s also fleeting, and he turns his eyes towards the next object of fascination “i look forward to more. don’t keep me waiting!”

james allows himself ten whole seconds to calm his heart down before he scurries out of the building.

the stars align a little, it seems, because the sidewalks are clear of any wedding mongers. james pulls his headphones up over his ears, shoves his hands in his pockets, and resolves himself to the six-block walk to the subway station.

he scrolls through his playlists, trying to find one cheerful enough to celebrate the weekend while sad enough to satisfy his inner brain goblins.

“wait, just, pegs— peggy, slow down, _wait_ ,” someone is pleading. it’s barely loud enough to be heard over the slight muffle of james’s headphones. the only reason james hears it all is the desperation in the voice combined with the wind tunnel the church’s steps make.

he tugs the headphones away from his ears.

just outside the church, at the top of all the pretty stairs, stands a bride and groom, dressed in stereotypical white and black. the woman's hair is done up in a fancy braid, lips lined red. james can’t see the man but he doesn’t really think he needs to with shoulders like that.

“i can’t, steve, i’m sorry,” the bride— ex-bride?— is saying. her accent makes it easier for james to listen in.

the groom’s back is tense. the jacket of his tuxedo is a too tight. james feels both guilty and entertained in equal parts.

the bride runs a hand across her forehead, “i’m not doing this for the right reasons, i—” she looks down at the ground, stress etched into her silhouette, “i love you, steve, i do, i just…”

steve nods, his head bobbing in slow motion, “it’s okay, pegs.”

whatever he says next is too quiet for even the wind to pick up and james is left out of the loop. he still waits, though, with the hope that one of them will start shouting about a betrayal or how they never loved each other or something similarly devastating. he knows he shouldn’t be listening in like this but this is way better than reheated lasagna and continuing his rewatch marathon of _bojack horseman_.

after a few minutes, the ex-bride heads back into the church. the ex-groom heaves a whole body sigh and turns to look out at the street.

panicked, james yanks his phone closer to his face and idles on the sidewalk, hoping he looks thoroughly engrossed in the apple music app.

he sneaks a glance back up to clear the coast. the ex-groom isn’t looking at him, but je _sus_ is james looking at the ex-groom. james couldn’t recreate this kind of stunning beauty if a build-a-blond factory opened up just outside of his apartment building.

ex-groom is tall with shoulders like a goddamn brick house. his tuxedo is tailored perfectly to his slim waist and jesus, mary, and joseph, he’s got a beard. james can’t really see the exact details of his face but he knows instinctively that they’re devastating.

what the hell had the ex-bride called him? steve?

 _steve_.

steve runs a hand through his hair and stares up at the sky.

james decides he would die for him.

after a few minutes of steve watching the clouds and james watching steve, steve turns sadly and slips in through the church’s doors.

now that the moment is over, james should get it together and get home before the wave of overachievers getting off hits the streets. they’re always angrier than the regular five thirty crowd and james is not in the emotional place to handle that kind of snappiness.

he leans against the railing of the church and opens up google.

ignoring the article detailing three ways to poach an egg, he opens a new tab and types _steve and peggy wedding st. bernadine church april twenty-eigth_.

the first link to pop up is to the church’s availability calendar. the second is a cheery _join steven g. rogers and margaret “peggy” carter in a celebration of their union..._

james clicks the second one.

by the time the church doors have opened and a steady stream of gossiping wedding guests pile out of the church, james has found steven rogers on facebook, twitter, and linkedin. his twitter is connected to an instagram under the name of capnrogers which is updated every few weeks with a picture of his dog, cap, his now ex-fiance, peggy, or his best friend, samsmiles. samsmiles is a mr. sam wilson, counselor at the veterans association on donaldson avenue. samsmiles updates daily. his last post is from this morning, a cheery shot of steves form, sprawled out and unconscious on sams couch.

it’s sam wilson who accompanies steve out of the church after everyone else has long gone. james has taken up residence on the bench across the street, and watches as the two descend the stairs.

they’ve both forgone their jackets. wilson has the top three buttons of his dress shirt open and steve has tugged his tie loose, letting it hang like a noose around his neck. james has been there.

he’s once again overwhelmed with the need to make steve feel better.

this is insane. he absolutely knows it is. it’s just…

james has never even _thought_ of anything like this. it feels like god herself has reached down and given him an opportunity and it’d be blasphemous not to take it.

he’s been sitting on the sidelines his whole life and this feels like he’s finally been put in the game. bottom of the seventh, bases are loaded, and james is the designated hitter.

steve and sam head the opposite direction of james's subway station and james, with the lord as his guide, follows them.

basic spy skills keep him on the opposite side of the street, keeping his phone up and flickering glances at the dynamic duo. now that they’re at the same elevation, james doesn’t think steve is really that much bigger than him. it doesn’t take away from his beauty in any way.

sam is handsome, too, but james is honestly so overstimulated by steve that he can’t spare even one percent of his brain power towards sam.

steve pulls open a door for sam, holding it as his friend ducks inside. james glances at the sign. otto’s tavern and loft.

james takes his time in crossing the street and mills around out front for a few minutes. the extra time starts his brain goblin back up and he goes inside before the inner screams of _stop being a fucking weirdo!!_ can discourage his message from god.

for a friday night, it isn’t very crowded and james spots steve and sam at the bar in seconds.

steve’s shoulders are somehow even more dazzling when they’re hunched in on themselves. sam is running a hand across them, saying something that james assumes is uplifting while waving the bartender over.

james takes a seat a few chairs down and sits his phone on the bar.

he’s never been one to voluntarily go to a bar on his own and he’s not really sure what to do, now. what do people do when they drink alone?

“what’ll it be?” the bartender asks. his face is unassuming, around james’s age. from the edge of his rolled sleeves, james can make out the end of a large tattoo.

he swallows, “uh, just a whiskey sour. please.”

“you want to open a tab?”

james sneaks a glance down to where steve is tossing back a dark liquid like the world is running out of it, “yea, that’s fine.”

terrified that he’s going to be made as the creepy piece of shit he’s being, he tugs out his notebook and a pen that has three different colors in it. he’s seen people do work at bars before, usually when he was at conferences or trainings. he could be at a work conference.

he commits to the role, jotting down bullet points for an article he could write on monday.

mostly, though, he tries desperately to tune out the music playing and hone in on the conversation going on between steve and sam.

he can only catch bits and pieces, but that’s enough.

“i’m _not_ mad, sam, really—”

“not mad at her, sure. but you are mad, steve.”

james pretends to watch the bartender bring his drink over so he can glance at steve, who is staring forlornly at his glass.

“thank you,” james says to the bartender, smiling tightly.

the bartender wanders off. james scribbles more nonsense in his book.

for the next two hours, he listens into steve and sams conversation. he switched to coke after his third drink and started taking notes on what steve and sam were talking about.

so far he knows that it was steve's idea to get married, peggy does not want kids, steve just had a very successful gallery opening. james googles s.g.rogers gallery openings while sam assures steve that everything happens for a reason. it makes james’s heart full. sam must be a really good counselor.

he’s engrossed in the gallery previews and almost misses sam saying, “come on, big guy. let’s get you home.”

steve sounds thoroughly miserable when he responds, “thank god she made me keep my apartment until after the wedding.” he stops, straightening up and looking at sam with big eyes, “jesus christ. oh, god. she didn’t want me to get rid of the apartment because _she knew she was going to leave me_.”

sam’s sense for impending disaster is way better than james’s. he shakes steves shoulders, “no, dude, she just didn’t want you making the whole house smell like turpentine.”

james quickly signals to close out his tab.

sam tugs steve off the barstool, patting his back with a resounding thump, “with the hangover you’re gonna have, being left at the alter is the least of your worries.”

steve’s answering laugh is more than a little watery.

is steve the kind of drunk who cries? is this just the alcohol-induced reaction to a very emotional day? james shoves his book back into his bag and counts to thirty.

at twenty-three, he exits the bar.

thankfully, steve is definitely the kind of drunk to meander down the sidewalk. james keeps a respectful distance, desperately trying to convince himself he’s only doing this because he needs to be sure steve makes it home safe. how would it look on him if steve died in the gutter and james missed it because he didn’t want to finish what he started? sure sam is with him, but sam is drunk, too. it’s james’s civic duty to see this through.

it becomes abundantly clear that they only chose otto’s tavern and loft because it’s two blocks from steve's apartment.

james take up post on the opposite sidewalk again, watching from a distance as sam wrestles steves keys from his pants pocket and unlocks the door. steve cackles into the night air and james resists the urge to close his eyes and curl up into the sound.

and then it’s quiet.

the door swings shut behind them. there’s a little metal box on the frame that indicates he would have to be buzzed in to enter.

reality soars back in. jesus christ, did he just spend his friday night stalking a stranger?

afraid to look too far into it, he tugs his phone out and searches for the closest subway station. he can’t help but make note of the address he’s standing in. what if he was kidnapped, right now, and had no idea where he was taken from? it only makes sense.

he hikes his bag up on his shoulder and sets off towards the subway.

by the time he gets home and peels his dress pants off, the whole thing feels like a fever dream. maybe he’s been home this whole time and the entire thing was a hallucination. afterall, steve did seem pretty goddamn dreamlike.

james falls into bed, plugging his phone in and opening google out of habit. _join steven g. rogers and margaret “peggy” carter in a celebration of their union…_ looks back at him.

not a fever dream, then.

but, okay, people do weird shit like this all the time. sometimes impulses take over higher brain functions. that’s okay! that happens! it’s a thing that people do!

it’s still weird.

he exits out of the internet and opens hulu instead. two episodes into bob’s burgers he knocks out.

his neck has the world's largest kink in it when he wakes up. he scrubs a hand across his face and gently rolls his head, wincing as he does so.

six new messages from natasha, two morning snapchats, twelve twitter notifications, and a meme in the facebook group messenger. james opens that one first, laughing in his heart, before opening the actual facebook app.

steven rogers looks back at him.

his profile picture has changed since yesterday. it’s now a shot of him and cap, snuggled up on the couch while steve makes a funny face and cap licks at his beard. it’s goddamn adorable.

james stares a little longer before methodically going through the rest of the notifications. he sends out a blurry shot of his foot sticking out of the blankets as his morning streak and sends back a meme of jay-z looking uncomfortable to natasha.

he doesn’t expect anyone to send anything back. it’s earlier than he would normally get up, and they’re all probably taking advantage of the saturday to sleep in. james snuggles back into the covers and plans to do the same.

the kink in his neck has other ideas. it’s impossible the get comfortable with his head actively trying to separate from his shoulders.

with a huge sigh, he climbs out of bed, intending on a hot shower. it’s probably not scientifically proven but the hot water couldn’t hurt his neck anymore.

he clicks on his shower playlist and makes quick work of tossing his pajamas back on the bed.

turning the hot water up as high as it’ll go, he steps under the stream, immediately soaking his hair and letting the scalding water hit the back of his neck, closing his eyes against the onslaught.

steve waits behind his eyelids.

james jerks a little, surprised with the intensity of his own thoughts. the picture is crystal clear. the cowlicks on the back of steve's head, the breadth of his shoulders, his hand curled around a whiskey glass.

james knows where this is going to lead and waffles between letting it happen and feeling extremely guilty.

ultimately he decides, fuck it.

he wastes no time pretending he isn’t already insanely into this and wraps a firm hand around himself. would steves hand be bigger? rougher? it’d probably have calluses from holding pencils and paint brushes. would he be loud, groaning and grunting in james’s ear? or maybe soft sighs, little whimpers.

james’s would wrap his own hand in steves hair, tug the strands and suck a mark just under steves beard. then he would push steve down, watch him stretch his lips around james’s cock. there’s the vivid flash of steve hallowing his cheek, james poking through the skin.

his release hits him fast and he groans, the sound lost to the water hitting the tile.

for a few seconds, he simply catches his breath.

it isn’t too weird, he tries to reassure himself. how many strangers did he jerk off to when he was a kid? three a week?

still, the tub feels like a crime scene. james cleans up quickly and exits even quicker.

once dressed, he deliberates between brewing his own coffee and going to the shop by the park he likes so much. it won’t be as crowded as normal without the flow of people looking for espresso before work.

the whole day lays sprawled out in front of him.

he’s not exactly eager to leave the house, but he definitely needs at least two fluffer pieces before returning to work on monday. plus, if he stays in the house, he’s just going to think about steve.

his not-work wardrobe is small so he gets dressed quickly, rubs some pomade through his hair, and packs his work bag.

it’s a beautiful spring day. the air is chilly but the sun is bright and james feels the need to lay on the ground and absorb the vitamin d.

the shop has a steady flow of customers but most people get their coffee and go, eager to make the most of the sunshine. james considers asking nat if she wants to do something outdoors or maybe one of his sisters, but he isn’t really up for that. he socializes every day of the week and he likes spending the weekend by himself.

still, once he’s seated at one of the tables outside, back to the building, he can’t help refreshing steve’s social media on his laptop. facebook and twitter remain the same but james nearly chokes when he opens capnrogers to see a picture of the park across from the coffee shop.

he jerks his head up from the computer, convinced steve is going to just stroll past.

james takes a quick second to be grateful he doesn’t guzzle his coffee down as soon as he gets it because if he did, he would have died.

steve and a dog— cap, james’s mind supplements— walk towards the sidewalk, coming from the opposite direction. cap is bigger in real life than he is in the photos but, honestly, so is steve. pictures don’t do either of them justice.

steve is equal parts wrapped up in his phone and cap.

“stay here, boy,” he croons to cap, tying his leash to the bike rack, “stay.”

cap sits down immediately. if steve used that commanding voice with him, james would probably sit down immediately, too.  

steve pats caps head and walks into the coffee shop. james has enough higher functioning left to recognize that he’s wearing workout gear before it shuts off and all james can do is wonder why steve wears his shirts so tight.

this is a sign. it has to be. there’s no other explanation.

james needs to figure out what to do with it. what do people do in this situation? should he walk right up to steve? rely on his own charm and good looks to woo steve into giving james his number?

that sounds like a disaster.

james thinks fast. what does he know about steve so far? he’s an artist— there could be an in there. james writes for a living, granted most of it is stupid internet bullshit, but there’s the occasional heavy hitter. it doesn’t feel like enough, besides, how would he casually blurt out what a creative soul he?

what else? steve likes to eat, but everyone likes that. he’s astoundingly opinionated on politics but right now everyone has a political opinion.

steve likes dogs.

james packs up in record time, swinging his backpack over his shoulder and striding to where cap has laid down on the sidewalk.

“hey, good boy,” he says, in the high pitched, soft voice people use with dogs, “where’s your human, huh?”

he squats down so they’re closer in height and lets cap sniff at his fingers. once he’s deemed too weak to be a threat, he runs his hands over caps floppy ears, scratching the underside with his blunt nails.

it can’t be more than thirty seconds before steve exits the shop. james watches from the corner of his eye as steve notices james, tries to decide if james is a threat, and walks towards them without having made a decision.

“hello,” he says, and james completely did not account for the way that voice would dance the foxtrot on his spine.

“oh, hey,” james says, hoping he doesn’t sound as emotionally wrecked as he’s feeling, “is this your dog?”

“yea. what are you doing?”

james grins a little, aiming for sheepish, “sorry, i just wanted to make sure he wasn’t left here or something. you know how people can be. you see that case last week, on the huffington post?”

something tiny relaxes in steve's face, “yea, that was horrible.”

james picks up on a tiny accent that he hadn’t heard before. it’s almost completely gone which makes it hard to identify, but james will google it later.

“who leaves dogs in the car like that? it’s 2019.” cap licks at his fingers and steve is warming up to the conversation so james straightens up and sticks out his hand, “i’m james.”

“steve.” steve’s grip is strong but not overwhelming. the perfect handshake. “sorry if that was aggressive, i was just worried. i usually don’t take him out with me if i’m stopping anywhere after my run but,” he pauses, swallows, and reaches deep inside himself to muster a little smile. james heart breaks. “i thought he could use the sunshine.”

james knows it’s too early to push so he shrugs, “don’t worry about it. i understand.”

he’s not ready for the conversation to end so he flickers through conversations in his mind like there’s a keep-steve-interested rolodex at the ready, “he’s a real good boy. you have him trained or something?”

it’s the right thing to say. steve stands up a little straighter with pride. james wants to massage his pecs. “no, no, i trained him myself. had him since he was a puppy so.”

“ah,” james hums, forcing his eyes away from steve's chest, “a rescue?”

steve nods, “adoption day at the vet’s office.” he drops his hand down so cap can lick it and james is having an extremely hard time on focusing on the conversation.

“we better get going,” steve says, bending a little to untie cap from the post, “get this guy home for his mid-morning nap.”

james laughs, “yea, of course. it was good meeting you both.”

“yea, you too. say bye, cap!” cap barks. james is impressed.

steve smiles a little and then the two head back from the direction they came.

james is floored.

he doesn’t think he can handle being outside anymore so he grabs the coffee he left at his hastily abandoned table, hopes it hasn’t been drugged, and makes his way back to his apartment. he has a lot of googling to do.

armed with his reheated coffee, a toaster strudel, his tablet, and his macbook, james gets to work.

first, he lets curiosity get the best of him and he googles the distance between the shop and steve's apartment. he can’t remember the exact building number, so he drops down into google earth's street view and looks at each building until one sticks out.

it’s a seven minute walk from the shop and a four minute walk from the side of the park opposite. steve mentioned running.

james makes a note on his tablet that steve may go running in that park every morning— probably a little before he showed up to buy coffee. a guy as fit as steve probably runs a good hour or more at a time, so james timestamps him beginning his jog at seven in the morning.

he can work with this. does he particularly want to? _no_ , but sacrifices must be made for love.

armed with the knowledge that he’s going to wake up tomorrow morning at seven and run around in nature until he crosses paths with steve, james switches to the next thing on the agenda: steve’s accent.

pulling up youtube, he types in accents in america and clicks on one that seems the most comprehensive and has the most views.

the woman on the screen thanks him for watching through the breakdown of the american accent and james suddenly feels very lost. he sticks it out because he doesn’t want to have to find his another video.

thankfully, forty-five seconds in, james is able to match the accent.

new york.

he tries to imagine the woman adding the word awful into her sentence, but the repeated iterations of talk make it so she doesn’t really need to.

so, steve is from new york. new york, james knows, is a big place. his family visited once when he was thirteen and they promptly lost rebecca for ten whole minutes just walking to times square.

he google maps new york and frowns. steve could be from any one of these places.

switching back to the youtube tab, he types in new york accents and chooses the first one he sees. not only is it insightful— james always thought there were only four boroughs and that staten island was just an island— it also pinpoints steve’s cadence in under a minute.

brooklyn, new york.

it makes him seem worldly and cultured. james, who was born in indiana, feels largely inadequate.

suddenly exhausted, james jots down all his newfound information on his tablet and sets it and his laptop on the coffee table. the _bojack horseman_ rewatch is a lot more appealing now.

he spends the day lazing on the couch. his attempts at forming full ideas for articles is apathetic at best. the best he comes up with is _eight times we are all mr. peanut butter_ which isn’t anything insightful, like stark had asked for, but it will keep potts of his back for at least a few days.

he finishes the article a few hours after the sun goes down and clicks off the tv. maybe it was the emotional turmoil of the morning or the mind numbing process of downloading netflix just so he could screenshot it, or maybe it’s just who james is as a person, but by the time nine rolls around, he’s ready to sleep through a world war.

he half-asses brushing his teeth and sighs in relief when he snuggles into his mattress.

maybe he should get a dog. then when he runs into steve he can say, look at this dog i got! she’s a rescue, too! maybe you could give me some tricks on training her?

he entertains the thought for far longer than he should, trying to weigh the pros against the cons.

the pros list is hefty, as it holds bonding with steve over dogs in its corner, but it’s hard to beat the champ that cons has which is that james is incapable for caring for another living thing. what if the dog doesn’t like him? does his building even allow pets? he’s pretty sure the girl down the hall has a cat but that’s different.

if he did get a dog, he would name it something sweet like winter.

he just barely remembers to set an alarm for the morning before he drifts off.

the alarm screams its way into james’s dream. foggily, he looks around for the steve that he was just talking to only to find that he is alone in his bed, just as he fell asleep.

this isn’t as depressing as it normally is. afterall, today is a big day.

james doesn’t own much in terms of workout gear, but he does have the adidas sweatpants that everyone was wearing two years ago and a plain hoodie. it isn’t the most stylish thing he’s ever worn, but the hoodie makes his shoulders look broad and the sweatpants emphasize his butt.

he spends a few minutes psyching himself up in the mirror before squaring his shoulders and heading out the door.

five minutes into his run, he realizes there’s a lot of logistical things he didn’t think to cover. first off, his keys slap against each other in his pocket, easily making him the loudest runner on the face of the planet. second, if he doesn’t hold his phone in his hand, it will fall onto the ground.

lastly, and most importantly, james does not like to run.

his lungs scream and his legs already hurt and he knows he should stretch at some point but he’s not sure when.

the fact that it’s a beautiful day only highlights james’s inner misery.

he spots a woman ahead of him lunging across the paved path. he slows his snail pace so he can watch more carefully what she’s doing. 

the longer he watches, the more the high school mile runs swarm back to him. james knows what to do.

if he alternates between dynamic stretching, static stretching, and actually jogging fast enough, he can make his way around the park without wanting to stop for a suicide break.

he looks absolutely ridiculous, but everyone else looks like they know what they're doing and thus are too wrapped up in their routines to pay him any attention.

this goes on for about thirty minutes. james is starting to get the feeling that steve might take sunday as a holy day. did he just waste his sunday morning running around the park? is that the man he wants to be? a park runner?

james slows to a stop so he can pretend to stretch his quads.

there’s steve.

james thinks maybe he overshot the whole running for an hour thing but that’s a small thought when compared to the sudden and jarring concern that he can summon steve with his thoughts. is steve real? is james’s mind just making this up? this is the second time he’s thought of steve just for him to magically appear.

he doesn’t have time to google _am i hallucinating_ because his hallucination calls, “james?”

his maybe hallucination sounds very real and very cheerful.

james straightens up, cocks his head to the side in what he thinks is a convincing expression of trying to place steve’s face to a name, “oh, hey— steve right?”

steve is sweaty but doesn’t seem particularly out of breath. definitely a daily runner then. he nods, pushing his hair up with his  “you run?”

“i used to,” james says, like the dirty liar he is, “i’m trying to get back into it.”

“that’s great, man.”

“no cap today?”

steve shakes his head, chuckling a little, “he wasn’t interested in anything that wasn’t my bed and some treats.”

“me, too,” james sighs, before he can even think to stop himself. he hurries on before steve can mull over what a weird thing he’s just said, “it takes a special soul to want to get up and run every day.”

“you’ll get there,” steve tells him, sounding earnest and like he fully believes in james’s ability to Be A Runner.

it’s empowering.

it’s also difficult to respond to. he needs to figure out a way to keep this conversation going and steer it towards getting steve’s number, at the very least. he could invite steve on a running date, but that sounds like a nightmare and the worlds fastest way to identify james as the sad sack he is.

“got any tips for getting back in the swing of things?” he asks.

steve hums and takes the question way more seriously than anyone should take the question of a stranger, “set up a routine, definitely. i usually run in the mornings before work, and i always go. that way i don’t have the chance to think about not going.”

james nods, “fair. what do you do?” it’s kind of abrupt but james feels like there’s an invisible timer ticking away in his ear, counting down the time he has left with steve.

“illustration,” steve sighs, “mostly.”

“oh, that’s awesome!” james isn’t faking even an ounce of his excitement, “that’s really cool.”

steve shrugs, “i want to do more fine art stuff. i’m really into sculpting, right now.”

james is sure steve says more but it gets lost in the image of steve using his hands to sculpt and mold and create. the steve in his mind has flecks of paint across his shirt. the shirt has no sleeves.

james has to bodily yank himself out of of the daydream, stepping to the side a little as he says, “you’ll get there.”

this is the prime moment for james to reveal something about himself, something that might make steve more interested in him, “i work at vice,” he blurts out, “which is great! but i always thought i’d be doing something, i don’t know? more creative?”

steve looks like he’s died and walked into heaven to find his kindred spirit, “yea! exactly! more original stuff, you know?”

james nods. he does know. “all you can do is try,” he says with a shrug, hoping he sounds way more come-what-may than he feels.

steve nods. james nods.

the conversation has run its natural course. james flits through a million ways to revive it until he settles on the one thing he would never do ever because that’s been working for him so far, “can i have your number? i’d love to see some of your work.”

he’s aiming for casual interest but the lust seeping out of his pores probably betrays that.

steve looks taken aback in the way that all hot people do when someone asks for their number. he’s a fairly open book and james gets to watch all his thoughts play out on his face.

first he’s surprised that james would ask. then he’s torn because he just broke up with peggy two days ago. now he’s trying to decide if maybe james is an axe murderer.

“was that too forward?” james says, cutting that line of thought off before it can really have a chance to grow, “sorry i just. i haven’t really done this in a while so,” he trails off.

in his own experience, insecurity works miracles on getting him to say yes to things. steve looks like maybe it works on him, too.

steve heaves a sigh, “look i,” he appears to be choosing his words very carefully, “i don’t want to give you the wrong impression but i just got out of a really serious thing and i’m not sure if i’m ready for anything else right now.”

james has two choices right now. he could bow out gracefully or try to persuade. steve seems like the kind of guy who beats persuasive guys up so james scraps that idea.

“oh. okay, yea, that’s fine,” james says, and the depression that’s fused in his words comes with no effort.

“you seem like a really nice guy,” steve continues and james wants to crawl in front of a bus, “i’m sorry.”

“no, no, it’s okay. i get it.” james does not get it. his heart hurts. he wants to die. maybe if he continues on this jog he was so hellbent on, cardiac arrest will take care of him. “i’ll see you around, steve.”

he turns to literally run away from the situation and straight into the grocery store where he’ll buy two quarts of mint chocolate chip to drown in.

he takes three steps and steve says, “james?”

james turns obediently. he can’t get his gaze to go higher than steve’s chest but he knows he’s not missing too much.

“you have a facebook?” steve’s asking, sounding more shy than james thinks he should have any right to.

facebook is a tricky thing— once a facebook friend, always a facebook friend. it’s not the best way to keep in contact with someone, but it is constant, and it does have fairly easy meme sharing services.

it’s not a win but it’s not a loss either.

james will settle for a tie.

“james buchanan barnes.”

steve wrinkles his nose like he’s going to laugh but doesn’t want to be rude. james’s heart pops an erection. “buchanan?”

“my dad was in the military.”

steve grins wickedly, “see you around, bucky,” he says, and turns to continue his jog.

james stands in shock for three whole minutes. he mentally goes through his organs, convinced that they’re shutting down on him. steve’s going to add him on facebook. steve gave him a nickname.

sure, bucky absolutely sounds like an unruly toddler but it’s the name steve gave him.

the walk home is a blur.

he peels out of his gross workout clothes the second the door shuts behind him and heads straight for the shower to take care of the erection he’s been sporting since steve said buchanan. _bucky_.

his good mood follows him out of the shower and he’s able to bang out a pseudoscience article about the emotional benefits of exercising.

even natasha facetiming him just to make fun of the pseudoscience article about the emotional benefits of exercising doesn’t bring him down.

“you seem awfully chipper,” she says, somehow managing to look condescending even though she’s wearing her hair in a bonnet and has a charcoal strip across her nose.

he considers telling her about steve but he finds he doesn’t want to. steve is like a special secret that only james knows about. if he tells natasha, it’ll be a whole thing about james getting back out there and a million questions about what steve looks like, what he wears, what he does, how they met.

james isn’t ready for any of that.

“game of thrones comes on in like, four hours, of course i’m happy.”

it’s an effective change in the subject. they swap fan theories for an hour before natasha remembers she’s not supposed to be wearing charcoal for more than fifteen minutes.

“have fun ripping off your skin!” he sings, to which natasha promptly flicks him off and ends the call.

the facebook notification is thirty minutes old when he sees it.

 _steven rogers wants to be friends with you on facebook_.

for a minute, james lets himself bask in this. did steve talk himself up throughout the day until he was ready to hit the request button? did he forget and remember just now? was he trying to play it cool by waiting until the evening? james thinks that’s what he would have done, but how could he be sure? he never would have thought he’d perfectly orchestrate meeting steve in the first place so clearly the expectations he has for himself are outdated.

he’s just about to hit the blue confirmation box when panic hits him square in the gut.

what does his facebook even look like to an outsider?

he spends a good hour cleaning up his timeline, untagging himself from unflattering photos and getting rid of all those stupid pages he liked seven years ago. his process is thorough but effective and he accepts the request with confidence.

now that they’re friends, james has access to all the things that were private on steve’s page before.

james tucks his feet under him and gets to scrolling.

steve’s birthday is july fourth and he goes to marches practically every weekend. he attended the maryland institute college of art. he speaks english, french, and german. works mostly as a freelancer. has absolutely no taste in music. once backpacked across europe and took artsy pictures of seemingly everything he came across. loves his dog more than life.

james thinks he might be in love.

thankfully, he’s saved from that crushing realization by natasha’s _it’s time!!!!!!_ text sent with the slam animation. he hurriedly logs into his stolen hbo account so that she can’t send him a spoiler.

game of thrones is as emotionally exhausting as ever.

when it’s over, james sends a simple _jesus christ._ message to natasha and shares a meme on his facebook to help deal with the trauma.

he brushes his teeth, washes his face, and climbs into bed with the ache of the episode clinging to his skin.

he scrolls twitter for a while, letting memes soothe away the sting.

_steven rogers likes your post!_

several things hit james at once: first, steve watches game of thrones. second, maybe he liked james post specifically to let james know that he watches game of thrones. third, holy shit holy shit holy fucking jesus christ on a fucking cracker—

so what he maybe has vivid dreams of fucking ser steven rogers through a pelt mattress? that’s his business.

**Author's Note:**

> warning for future chapters: i'm writing this from a mostly humorous standpoint all the way through, but it really does get Dark after this (bucky is a Real Life stalker) so take care of yourself!!
> 
> catch me on tumblr! skeletalescape :)


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